


seven days was all she wrote

by phinnia



Series: All God's Children [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-13 06:04:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21239363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phinnia/pseuds/phinnia
Summary: A wedding is going to happen, and Crowley has to stop it.First step:  get exceedingly, utterly, three-sheets-to-the-passing windstorm pissed.





	1. Chapter 1

Monday

Crowley got the invitation on Monday. It was an actual letter that was printed on real ivory cardstock addressed to him, and that's what stood out about it. It was done in calligraphy - very elaborate, gold and black, done by hand - and it was addressed to him by name. How bloody weird. He never got actual _mail_. Just bills and circulars. (One of his best things, circulars. Junk mail as a thing was just brilliant. He'd gotten a commendation for that one.) 

Looked like somebody's wedding invitation.

He never got invitations to those Blessed things. 

Maybe it was Book Girl and that weird boyfriend of hers with the shit car. They seemed to be the sort to get married and invite a demon. 

He opened it with a knife he'd gotten from the Medicis, idly flicking through his Netflix queue to find something to watch. Nothing, the lot of it was trash. He took a long drink of coffee.

_You are cordially invited to the nuptiuals of _

Crowley choked and then spit his black coffee all over the invitation.

He stomped into the bookshop about six minutes later. "You're marrying _Gabriel_?"

If he'd been paying attention to anyone that wasn't himself, he would have noticed that Aziraphale's back had straightened, and that he was putting books down just a slight bit more fussily than he normally did. But understandably, Crowley was a little preoccupied with the current situation. "Yes. I am."

"But - but -" what about _me_, what about about _us_, what about _our side_, what about ... "how can you stand all those _teeth_? It's like looking into Audrey Two's mouth and he's twice as bloodthirsty!"

"Whose mouth?" Aziraphale turned around and looked at him. "See here, Crowley, he's perfectly reasonable -"

"A perfectly reasonable _fuckface_ with far too many teeth. Oh, _bugger this_, I'm going for a drive."

"Where are you going?"

"Northern Ireland!"

"That's not even on the same land mass as this!"

"I don't care!" Crowley shouted, slammed the door, and off he went, speeding down the street in the Bentley and nearly going over a woman with a stroller. 

Many hours later, in Belfast

Crowley was attempting to get very, very sozzled. He had drunk a bottle of scotch and was on the middle of his second, catching up with a few of his old pals in the IRA, reminiscing about bombs (he had nothing to do about buses full of schoolkids, he had _standards_ after all, but regular bombs he was okay with, especially empty banks and all that). 

"R'member that - that - Minister Whasisname?" Crowley says to his friend across the table. "He was a bloody tosser."

"Why are ye here again?"

"I'm gettin' _pissed_! M'angel's gettin' married!"

The fellow across the table, a sturdy guy by the name of Liam, nodded. "Not te you, then."

"No." Crowley says into the unsteady pub table. "No, no. To the universe's biggest tosser who has more teeth than ... those people who do teeth."

"What teeth people?"

There was a long pause. Crowley had another swig of scotch. 

"Dentissssts!" 

"What the fuckin' shit are you talkin' about?" Liam just figured the hissing was a speech impediement that came out when Crowley was especially drunk. He was more or less correct.

"The teeth people!"

"Oh, right, yeh. Let's get ye someplace before ye actually finish that second bottle."

"I'm takin' it." Crowley tosses a handful of hastily demonically-miracled notes on the table.

"Whatever. How 'bout a nap, then?"

"Eeeh." Crowley shrugged like he always did, mostly spine and hardly any shoulders. "Maybe I'll sssssleep through the wedding."

"If ye like." Liam dragged him out of the pub.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you go through the roof, you probably shouldn't actually go through the roof, but he's a demon, he can't help it.

Sometime Tuesday afternoon, Belfast

Crowley woke up on a completely shit sofa with his head feeling like it was full of spun sugar and his tongue feeling at least seven sizes too big for his mouth. Also, his phone was ringing.

He fumbled around for his phone. "What? This better be good because I'm dying."

"Where are you?" It was Book Girl. "I looked all over your flat, all over Mayfair, all over Tadfield. Aziraphaile said you stormed out of his shop in a snit."

"I'm in Belfast." He tried opening one eye. It was a terrible mistake. "Drove to Belfassst. Blessed Satan, it's bright in here. Did he actually ssssay _sssnit_?" He was hissing and couldn't bring himself to care.

"No, _I_ said snit. He said you were making a fuss." She sighs. "I got the invitation. Are you _hung over_?"

"Is that what this is? Dissscorporation feels better." He tried shifting his eyes to human, but it didn't help, so he darkened his sunglasses a shade or three, and that did. "My sssstomach feels like it's trying to climb out of my thr--aagaackk." Oh, vomit was truly revolting. _Hangovers_ were revolting. 

Anathema, back in Tadfield, held the phone away from her ear and winced. "How much did you _drink_?"

"Couple bottlessss of Scotch. Fell assssleep before I could ssssober up."

"Shit, Crowley. And how did you _drive to Belfast_ anyway?"

"Well, drove to the coassst, miracled the car over, drove the resssst of the way." 

"Do something about your hangover and get back here, will you?"

"Like ... like what? I have no idea what to do about thessse things, I've never had one." 

She sighs. "Water. Coffee. Paracetamol. A lot of the first one and a decent amount of the second two. What's this Gabriel like?"

"He's a fucking tosser." Crowley attempted to sit up. It worked, partially. "You know the sort of idiots, business types with way too many teeth that smile all the time but not _really_ and have their lives arranged in plannerssss every fifteen minutessss? Rude to waitresses, but nice to people they think they ought to be nice to? Probably has an obnoxiousssly small cock?"

"Got it."

"That's what he'ssss like. High-grade executive fucking arse and he's got his head so far up his own arse he can probably ssssee daylight." 

Anathema sighed. "Look, can you get back here? We need to talk. Just come to the cottage. This whole wedding is stupid."

"I'll be there in ... as soon assss I figure out thissss hangover thingy."

Later Tuesday night, Tadfield

"I sent Newt over to talk to Azriaphale about this ridiculous wedding." Anathema poured him a coffee. "There are no computers there, he's a good listener, he'll be fine."

"You sent Lizard Boy in the stupid shit car?" 

"Well, it's not like you were available, you were hungover in Belfast. Who else was I supposed to send?" Anathema scowled darkly at him. "You stormed out of the bookshop in a _snit_ going on about someone named ... Audrey. Who the hell is Audrey?"

"Audrey Too. Azriaphale doesn't watch movies. Gabriel is more bloodthirsty than Audrey Too."

"Oh." She nods. "Thought she might be some kind of, you know, plant."

Crowley glared at her over his sunglasses. "That was an awful pun."

"I thought it was better than saying 'fag hag', but I don't know why I bothered, it's you." She hands him a coffee. 

"Clarity is important." Crowley grumbled. "What are we going to do about this fucking disaster?"

Newt ran inside, panting. 

"Well?" Anathema looked at him.

"It's some kind of ... well, I don't know what it's about, but it looks _nasty_." Newt says. "That Gabriel fellow dropped by, he looks like an idiot."

"He is an idiot." Crowley says. "The biggest idiot in all Creation."

"If I had to say -"

"Which you do." Anathema says, looking at him.

"It looks like some sort of, you know." Newt looks around and softens his voice into a whisper. "Blackmail." 

Crowley hits the roof.

Literally.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shadwell totally mixes up Jesus and Shakespeare, but really, it does make sense in context. Gabriel gets a rude name, and has to think about nipples for the first time since the Beginning of Time.

Very Early Wednesday Morning

Crowley actually not only _hit the roof_ he went directly _through the roof_ and ended up right on top of it.

"Are you all right, love?" 

He'd heard that voice before.

Crowley brushed some plaster out of his hair and looked down. Oh, fuck. It was ... oh, that bloody woman that Aziraphale had shared a body with at the airbase. 

Oh, Bless this.

"Fine! I'm fine!" He coughs. "Totally meant to do that." 

She looks up at him. "I remember you! You're that one with the car!"

"Yes, I am that one with the car." 

Lizard-Boy and Book Girl run outside. 

"Crowley, _get down off my roof!_" Anathema says crossly. "And you'd better fix that."

"Do you need a ladder?" Aziraphale's-Ex-Host-Body asks. "I'm fairly sure the Sargeant has one where he's staying."

"Totally fine without a ladder." Crowley shouts. 

_"Get down."_ Anathema says, glaring.

He demonically miracles himself back inside. "There. I'm not a _cat_, you know. A snake, maybe, not a cat."

"You _act_ more like a cat. Certainly haughty enough to be a cat." She says. "And fix the roof!"

"Do you want a skylight, or no?"

She ponders. "Yes."

He snaps his fingers. "Skylight. Nothing simpler."

Lizard-Boy, meanwhile, was inviting Shadwell and ... oh, what was her name - _Tracy, that was it, Madame Tracy_ \- in for tea. And explaining the whole disastrous wedding situation. 

"But he can't get married!" Madame Tracy says. "He's ... he's so sweet on you!"

"He is _not_." Crowley says to the floor, sinking into Anathema's loveseat. 

"That Great Southern Pansy is gettin' wed?" Shadwell says. "Not to a woman?"

"No, not to a woman." Newt says.

"To an idiot with lots of teeth." Anathema replies. "But we think the idiot is blackmailing him."

"How many nipples does this idiot have?" Shadwell says.

Crowley shrugs. "Never checked."

"Oh, I'll find out." He looks crafty. "'Course, you'll have to spot me bus fare to London ..."

Crowley sticks out a handful of notes. "That be enough?"

Later Wednesday afternoon, Soho

Shadwell strides into the shop the second it opens. He'd been watching from the teashop across the street.

"Sargent Shadwell!" The Great Southern Pansy was talking to some taller one that looked very much like the idiot Anathema had mentioned. Shadwell privately labelled him The Bloody Banker Twat. He looked like a bloody banker twat, thank you. "This is my ... er, my intended, Gabriel."

"Right." He thrust his index finger into the Bloody Banker Twat's chest. "And how many nipples have you got, then?"

The Bloody Banker Twat carefully took two steps backwards. "Er ... The usual, normal number of nipples?"

"And how many is that?"

He looked like he was trying to look it up in a catalogue. "Erm ... two? Two. Why am I even telling you this?"

"Because Mr. Fell and I have been friends for a bloody long time and I've never heard of _you_ before." Bloody great banker twat. He was pretty certain Shakespeare had said something about killing banker twats. If he were Shakespare, he would have done. At least this one. "And I'd like to say that your friend's a mite put out about this."

"What friend?" Bloody Banker Twat says.

"Just a friend of mine." Mr. Fell says. "Did he ... did he ever make it back from ... er, Ireland?"

"I don't think I should tell you." Shadwell scowls, and stomps back to the bus station. He decides not to tell Crowley about that. He will tell his retired Jezebel, though. 

Late Wednesday evening, Jasmine Cottage

Crowley was looking up through the newly installed skylight. He could see Alpha Centauri, and that made him ... fill up his scotch again.

"So he _claimed_ he only had the normal number of nipples but he looked like he was looking that up in his head." Shadwell says, sipping his usual tea, condensed milk and nine sugars.

"He probably was." Crowley sighs. "I bet that was the first time he ever thought about nipples since the birth of the universe." 

"Bloody banker twat." Shadwell mutters.

Crowley chuckles slightly and clinks his glass of scotch against Shadwell's teacup. "I'll drink to that."

"Shakespeare ever say anything nasty about bankers?"

"No, that was Jesus. Threw 'em out of the temple." It was pretty hilarious, actually. 

"Better."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So a witch and a snake and an archangel sit down for a game of Scrabble.

Thursday afternoon, Soho

The Bentley arrived in front of the bookshop, and Crowley put his head in his hands. "I can't go in there. _He's_ in there. Fucking tosser. I'm not drunk enough for this."

"I'll go with you." Anathema says from the back. "I have the perfect gift for them."

"We have to buy gifts? Really?"

"I signed your name on our card. Don't worry about it. It's fine. And believe me, you might actually have fun with this."

"Fun?" Crowley chokes on his thirty-percent-coffee-seventy-percent-rum drink. "How can this possibly be _fun_? 

You'd be surprised." She gets out of the car and drags him into the shop by his wrist. 

"Anathema!" Aziraphale looks up, startled at the shop bell. Oh, Lord, she'd brought _Crowley_ along with her. Crowley looked ... rumpled, unmade, his hair standing out every which way. Not the usual demon that tried to be so cool and unfazed. He looked almost haggard, and he'd pushed up his sunglasses to better hide his eyes. 

"Gabe." He nodded curtly at Gabriel. 

"Crawly." Gabriel says coolly. 

Crowley changes into a snake. "If we're going to do that name, I might assss well go back to that form." 

"You really weren't joking about that snake thing." Anathema says, watching this whole thing like a particularly interesting tennis match. 

"Oh no, I wasss the original ssssnake." Crowley hisses. 

"You have lovely markings." Anathema lifts him up off the floor. "Oh! Red stomach. I don't even know what breed you are. I think you might be one of a kind. I suppose that does make sense, doesn't it?" 

"Why are you here?" Gabriel asks, a cool tone to his voice. 

Anathema puts the large square box she's carrying on the front counter of the bookshop. "A gift! For your wedding. From myself, and Newt, and Crowley. Feel free to open it! It's not exactly _traditional_, but we thought we'd get you something you didn't have." 

Gabriel looked at it curiously and a touch suspiciously. 

Aziraphale smiles. "Such lovely wrapping, dear." 

"Oh, that was me. Newt picked it out. Crowley gave me a lift here, you know, to give it to you both. It was all very, you know, people helping each other with things." 

"You know, the ssssort of arrangement that friendssss have." Crowley says from her shoulders. 

"Ah, yes." Azriaphale murmurs, and removes the wrapping without tearing it, because of course he does. 

The gift is a Scrabble game. 

"What is this?" Gabriel asks. 

"Oh, it's a human board game." Anathema chirps. "Tell you what. Crowley and I will teach you how it works." 

So a witch and a snake and an archangel sit down for a game of Scrabble. They declared the table a miracle-and-demonic-miracle-free zone. Anathema put the letters in a bag and Crowley stirred them around with his tail. Gabriel shook them. 

"All right. Now we each draw one, and whoever gets the one worth the largest number of points gets to begin." Anathema says. "The points are the little number on the right side of the tile. They're sort of assigned by how difficult it is to use the letter in a word, you see. Then we draw six more letters and try to get them into words. And we can play off of each others' words." 

Gabriel nods. That seems reasonable. He draws an E. 

Anathema draws a K. 

Crowley draws an X with his tail. 

"All right, you first then." Anathema pats him on the head. 

If snakes could have rolled their eyes, he would have done. Instead, he flicks the word 'SUSHI' on to the board. 

"What is that?" Gabriel asks. 

" A food from Japan." Anathema says calmly. "It's in the dictionary, it's legal." She plays 'NASTY' off of Crowley's play. "Your turn." 

Gabriel looks at his letters in disappointment. "All I have are vowels." 

"Well, draw a letter, then." 

He does. 

Crowley draws again and plays 'FAUST'. Aziraphale chuckles. 

"What was that, dear?" Gabriel asks. 

"Oh, nothing, nothing." 

Anathema plays 'FRAMED'. 

Gabriel draws another tile. "I still have all vowels." 

Anathema shrugs, and her look definitely declares that this is _not her problem. _

__

__

Crowley flicks the 'X' on the board, followed by an 'S'. He adjusts them around the 'E' in 'FRAMED'. "Well, that's it for me, I'm done." 

"That's a rude word!" Gabriel shouts. 

"No, _that's_ a biological function." Anathema replies. "The word you may be thinking of is 'fuck'. That's the rude one." 

Gabriel's jaw actually drops. 

"Crowley, maybe we should go." She says sweetly. "You know how Newt can't handle mobiles." 

Crowley slithers back down on the floor and under the table, out of the miracle-free zone, and shifts himself back into a human again. "Well, folks, it's been real. Catch you on the flip-flop." He smiles and holds the door open for Anathema. 

She gracefully walks out after him. 

They get halfway down the street in the Bentley before they explode with laughter. 

"I can't believe you said that." Crowley howls. 

"What a fucking idiot he is." Anathema giggles. "Newt was absolutely right. So was Shadwell. Banker twat indeed." 

"You were right about one thing." Crowley says. 

"What?" 

"That was fun. But I still have no idea how to stop this stupid wedding." 

"There are lots of us working on it now." Anathema says. "You know, lots of minds working on it. We'll work something out." 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out more about the ceremony, and where it's going to be. Crowley looks good in a suit.

Friday evening, Jasmine Cottage

"So where's the ceremony going to be?" Madame Tracy asks. 

"Saint James' Park." Crowley sighs into his fourth scotch. _Our park. We spent so much time there. Feeding the ducks._

She scribbled that down on a notepad. "And what time?" 

"Noon."

"And who'll be doing the ceremony, then?"

"Michael, apparently." Crowley detested Michael. She would be cute if she didn't have the Tree from Blessed Eden up her arse. If she actually tried to do something with herself. Let her fucking hair down once in a while. And they were celestial vows, too. Unbreakable. Fucking Gabriel and his goddamn blackmail schemes. 

"Very posh. And what will you be wearing?"

Crowley miracled himself another glass of scotch. "Am I even going? This is going to be the shitshow to end all shitshows. It'll be horrible and I'll be surrounded by people that loathe me."

"You got an invitation, so of course you're going." Madame Tracy gave him a pat on the hand. "And not everyone there is going to loathe you. The Sargeant and I will be there, Anathema and Newton will be there. Adam may even be there. Now what is it you'll be wearing?"

Crowley sighed and looked down at himself. Same tight jeans and black button-down shirt as always. "I don't suppose you'll be satisfied with this, will you?"

"No, love, of course not." She patted his cheek. "I know you're having a terrible time. But you can do better." 

Crowley snapped his fingers and reappeared in a black pinstriped suit, tight as the jeans, with red bow tie. "Good enough?"

"Much better! Anathema, come see. Doesn't he look dashing in a suit?" 

Anathema poked her head out of the bedroom. "Very nice, Crowley. I hope I can get Newt to look even half as good."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why is this all happening? A moment from Aziraphale's point of view.

Very late Saturday night, Soho

Aziraphale puttered around the front of the shop, dusting, trying to put his mind off of tomorrow's events, and prayed he was doing the right thing.

He'd just wanted to make things right. That was all. Just to undo the wrongs he'd caused, over the years on Earth. The sins of gluttony. Idleness. Sloth. 

Gabriel had come to him with a proposition. _If you and I are married - celestially married - then I shall put in a good word. With Her. Next time we speak._

He'd never known Gabriel had had _Her_ ear, but it did make some sense, being the head Archangel and all. 

And he'd had to put aside his feelings for Crowley. All of them. The ones that had been growing since 1941 - since longer ago than that, to be honest. 

No. No, he couldn't think that. He shoved those feelings away and kept dusting the shelves.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God is one of the cool mums, but you don't want to get her pissed off.

Sunday morning, 10:45, Jasmine Cottage

Crowley had gotten so drunk last night he had forgotten which way was up. He'd started dropping things and only stopped when Newt came out to see what all the noise was. He just sighed and made him drink water. Crowley hated water so he miracled it into vodka, which fooled Newt for about ten minutes, and then Crowley started _sobbing_ on him, and that was just _weird_ and a bit awkward, frankly, especially since the tears were red. He really hoped they didn't stain. They didn't. 

Then he fell asleep and turned into a snake, but Anathema had warned him about that happening. He just tucked him up in a bunch of warm blankets with a heating pad warmed up in the micro (he had to wake someone to work the micro, but Anathema understood when he told her what happened) and then they went back to bed and she set an alarm for eight-thirty. 

They'd let Crowley sleep until the absolute last minute.

"Crowley." Anathema poked the blanket nest. "Time to get up."

There is a hiss from under the blankets.

"None of that, now. Come on, or we'll take Newt's car."

There is a shimmering, and Crowley reappears, dressed in a very rumpled version of the same clothes he was in last night - the black button-down shirt and jeans, still wet on the left shoulder. "Satan help me, I can't be hungover _and_ in a fucking sssshit Wasabi." 

They all pile into the Bentley. Crowley lets her do the driving. He doesn't feel like being sober. He feels like being extremely, utterly fucking shitfaced for this monster-M25-on-fire-car-crash-Apocalypse of a wedding. 

He miracles a large bottle of mescal into his hand.

"You can't drink that _and_ drive the car!" Anathema says.

"'Mnot driving." Crowley says. "Car's driving hersssself. Want ssssome?"

"Oh ... fine." Anathema grabs it and takes a swig.

Newt looks shocked at her.

"Well, it is going a lot slower then his usual hundred and thirty miles an hour, and taking the turns on all four wheels instead of two, look." She points out, passing the bottle to him.

She has a point. Newt also takes a drink and passes the bottle back to Crowley. Crowley ends up drinking nine-tenths of the bottle and eating the worm. 

11:49  
St. James' Park, London

The flowers looked absolutely lovely, Madame Tracy thought. She hadn't seen Crowley or Newton or Anathema about, but she expected they might be a touch late. She and the Sargeant took a seat by the back.

"Did you see the ducks outside?" Adam said as he sat down next to her. "There was a real big one. Dog barked at it." Dog was wearing a large tartan bow and trying his best not to scratch it off. 

"I didn't, no, love." 

"I feel real bad for Crowley. Is he coming?"

"He should be here soon, dearie." Madame Tracy pats his shoulder. "Any time now. You just keep an eye on Dog."

11:55

"Ready?" Gabriel asks, fiddling with his tie.

Aziraphale scans the crowds for red hair and finds none at all except Michael's. "Yes, I suppose I am."

11:56

Michael opens the Book of Celestial Vows.

11:57

The Bentley pulls up on the grass in front of the tent. Crowley has a thousand-yard stare, and Newt isn't sure whether it's all the drinking, the event, or what. "No no no."

"Yes yes yes." Anathema climbs out of Newt's door and tries to drag him out. The Bentley helps a bit, and he sprawls right on the grass, through the area where all the people are. Everybody turns around to look. Newt and Anathema get up and have the grace to look vaguely embarrassed. Crowley just sort of lies there. 

Then a large duck comes along and pokes him with its beak - once, twice, three times.

11:58

The duck transforms into a woman. The woman has long rainbow hair tied back in a ponytail and is wearing jeans and a cutoff pink t-shirt that says 'love is love is love' on it. She strokes Crowley's hair fondly. 

"Oh, Shamsiel, why are you such a _mess_?" she says, with fondness in her voice. "Come on, get up, will you? Michael, put that book _down_ immediately and I mean _now_, and Gabriel, sit."__

_ _"Mother?" Half a dozen voices say in shock._ _

_ _"Why are you so surprised? I just went out for a quick stroll around Alpha Centauri and I told you I'd be back. Gabriel, I mean it, _sit down_." Her tone brooks absolutely no discussion. "Immediately."_ _

_ _Gabriel sits down. Michael drops the book. It vanishes. _ _

_ _"Come on, Shamsiel, get up." She says, nudging Crowley again. _ _

_ _"Who?" Crowley murmurs and looks up at God. "Mum?"_ _

_ _"Yes. Why are you so - _oh_." She gets up and turns to the assembled archangels. "All right. Who's responsible for this mess? I told you it was fine to cast out _Lucifer_, he was leading the Rebellion, but I never said anything about _Shamsiel_."_ _

_ _"But Mother -" Gabriel sputters._ _

_ _"He was always asking questions!" Michael shouts. _ _

_ _"That's why I made him!" God shouts back. "I wanted him to ask questions! I wanted you lot to be _curious_ like the humans were! These humans are wonderful! Look at all they've made! So many books and so much food, lovely architecture, gorgeous art, fantastic jewelry, and you lot have turned Above into a _corporate infrastructure_! If nobody asks questions, there's never any _progress_!" She huffs, gets up, and puts a pillow under Crowley's head. "Rest for a moment, my dear, while I deal with the rest." Then she walks up the aisle with a glare in her eye. "I won't be having any of this nonsense any longer. Michael, go sit down at the back. You too, Gabriel. _Immediately._ I will hear absolutely no further arguments."_ _

_ _"Yes mum." They both say, and go to the back of the tent. Some chairs open up. Nobody is sitting around them - they're just sitting in the center of a big ring of empty chairs._ _

_ _"All right, now." God smiles at the assembled company, and at Aziraphale, who seems to be shocked into silence. "Now. Shamsiel, dear? Oh, why did you drink all that? I mean, there's drinking and then there's _drinking_. You really are a mess at the moment." She looks sideways at Aziraphale. "He really needs a husband. And I think all of these people did come here for a wedding." She waves her hand, and Crowley is standing there, looking very confused, without sunglasses, and abruptly sober. He's wearing the suit again._ _

_ _He blinks twice. "What the fuck just happened?"_ _

_ _"Oh, sorry, darling." God says airily. "You were a touch blotto and we can't have you getting married drunk."_ _

_ _"What? Mum? When did you come back?"_ _

_ _"Just now, and I'm very cross with a few people." She glares at the back of the tent. "Never one of my ideas that you were to get cast out, in the first place. Now, which name do you prefer?"_ _

_ _"Uh ... better go with Crowley, just in case. Kind of forgot the other." He admits._ _

_ _"Sensible." She nods, and the book reappears in Her hands. She smiles on them as the ceremony is performed. The cake is wonderful. Absolutely scrumptious. Heavenly, almost._ _

_ _Miraculously, the honeymoon suite is open at the Ritz. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale will admit to performing this miracle, but they expect they know who did._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shamsiel was the angel that looked after the Garden of Eden after Adam and Eve left, which seems rather reasonable for Crowley.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End. And they are off to Alpha Centauri. I would imagine a 'just married' sign on the Bentley but that would be so terribly not-cool at all.

Saturday evening  
The Ritz Hotel

Crowley slammed the door hard enough that people on adjoining floors wondered why the walls were shaking. 

"_Someone's_ a bit eager." Aziraphale murmurs from across the room, chuckling.

"_Someone_ spent the last week moping and drinking because he thought he'd lost you forever to some enormous _fuckface_ with far too many teeth. Someone spent the entirety of yesterday evening drinking. I got so drunk I forgot about gravity, angel. I forgot how _gravity worked._ I remember crying all over Lizard-Boy." He falls backwards on the bed. "It's been one fucking long day."

"I hope you aren't tired." Aziraphale strokes his hair. 

"Oh, no, not the slightest bit tired." There's a bit of a glimmer in his eyes, and a half-smile on his face. "I mean, I have something to do. Or you have something to do. One of us has something to so. Something, someone. We can switch off. Like that sort of thing." 

Aziraphale leans down and kisses him. 

He imagined, all through the ceremony and after, how Crowley would _taste_. Crowley tastes like champagne and wedding cake and just a hint of brimstone and a tiny smidgen of miracles. His wings are still black. God said She couldn't change that without a major miracle, and Crowley had told her he liked black anyway. But She was very, very cross with Gabriel and Michael, and there were about to be major changes Upstairs, She said. She wanted suggestions. When they were done with their honeymoon, She said, and suggested Alpha Centauri as a destination. 

Crowley kisses back. His tongue is forked and long and he smiles into the kiss, and Aziraphale can feel the sigh as he relaxes, as they relax together on the bed. They roll around, still kissing, not breaking apart, miracling away their clothes. 

"I love you." Aziraphale murmurs into Crowley's mouth. 

"Yeah." Crowley whispers. "Me too. That suit was awful." 

"You looked ravishing in it." Aziraphale sucks back his husband's lip. "I wanted to tear it off you." 

"In front of everyone?" 

"Well, Gabriel at least." 

Crowley chuckles. "Mmmm, yeah. I can see that. You looked fantastic in yours, too. I'm a bit hungry." 

"Well, you didn't eat much at the reception -" 

_"Angel."_ Crowley looked at him with a raised eyebrow. 

Aziraphale realized what he was talking about all of a sudden and laughed. _"Oh._ That sort of hungry." 

"Yes. That sort of hungry." Crowley's grin was infectious. "Very, very hungry." He licked a lazy stripe down Aziraphale's stomach, between his plush thighs, straight up his erect cock and down the other side. "Mmm. You taste delicious." 

"What - what do I taste like?" Aziraphale asks breathily. 

"Mmmm. Like chocolate and red wine and Tahitian vanilla beans. And whipped cream. And the slightest hint of champagne." Crowley murmurs into his skin. "And creme brulee covered in demerara sugar." 

"Sounds like an utterly sinful meal." 

"Angel, you are my utterly sinful meal." Crowley whispers. "And now you'll be mine forever, and nobody can argue." 

Aziraphale would have said something else except Crowley swallowed him and the feeling of those throat muscles contracting gently around his cock nearly made the angel discorporate on the spot, never mind words. He couldn't even really do anything as he came, just tugged a bit on Crowley's hair, but the demon just grinned at him again and licked his lips like he'd just eaten a fantastic dessert for the first time. 

"Oh, lemon meringue pie. Forgot one." Crowley says. 

"You can taste all that?" 

"More of a smell, really. Snakes can smell the air." Crowley shrugs with his spine again. Azriaphale has noticed this before, but never seen him do it nude. It ripples down his spine. It's _sinuous._

"How can you possibly be so attractive while shrugging?" He murmurs, trailing kisses down Crowley's spine. 

"Mmm, don't know. Just a thing I do." Crowley actually _giggles_. 

"What?" 

"Ticklish." 

_"Oh, really?" _

And it somehow turns into a tickle-fight/pillow-fight, which Azriaphale wins by sitting on top of Crowley and kissing him until they roll off the bed, and then it turns into sex again, and eventually they fall asleep after the people downstairs are wondering _what is going on on the next floor_ and decide they do not want to know but perhaps they might try a different hotel next time. 


End file.
